Hearing Willow's utterly normal, perfectly composed, gentle voice, Irene—curled up in a ball under the covers—finally loosened a little the two fingertips that had been clutching the edge of the quilt.
She had originally thought that the moment the door opened this early morning, what would greet her would be an earth-shattering, overwhelming barrage of questions from the Black Rose vassal system; she had even worked out in advance how to explain to Willow why she had slept in Her Majesty's bed.
In the end, this top-tier civil officer did not so much as twitch an eyebrow, her expression as calm as if she were merely cross-checking a stack of the most ordinary refugee registers in the Administrative Hall's main warehouse.
She really was a steward who had followed all the way here from the Royal City of Mason—that composure was simply rock-solid!
Irene cautiously poked half of her fluffy pink head out from the warm fox-fur quilt, her big sapphire-like eyes still carrying a few traces of guilty, thief-like probing, her round little cheeks flushed red.
Beside the long couch, Willow looked neither left nor right, only slightly bowing her tall, slender figure as she steadily set down a pink dress—neatly folded and even carrying the faint cold fragrance of Black Rose—on the white-porcelain bench at the head of the bed.
"The clothes were personally picked out of the wardrobe by Her Majesty this morning.
Her Majesty said that at noon today we will be eating Hot Pot in the side hall, with no work to do, so there is no need to wear work clothes. Wearing something brighter like this will also set off the Inventor's complexion nicely."
Willow's lips still wore that flawlessly elegant smile, her deep gaze pausing ever so lightly for a moment on Irene's somewhat swollen, moist lips, before she nodded slightly, her expression as usual:
"Since Miss Irene is already awake, then wash up and head over early; do not keep Her Majesty waiting too long in the flower house. There are still several batches of urgent accounts sent in by various cities that need to be tallied over at the main warehouse, so I shall take my leave first."
Having said this, the Administrative Officer gracefully turned around, her pure-white long dress tracing a neat arc in the morning light as she withdrew with small, light steps.
"Click."
Hearing the heavy wooden door of the Bedchamber once again close completely and soundlessly, and the whole cool, pleasant hall returning to silence, Irene finally—as if relieved of a thousand-catty burden—let out a long breath in an utterly undignified manner.
"Phew... that scared This Lady to death; I thought Willow was going to see through to something unseemly."
Irene sat up clutching the big fox-fur quilt, and as she looked at the light pink dress on the white-porcelain bench, her heartbeat—which had been more or less steady—began, in that instant, to race a little uncontrollably again.
Although last night under the covers she had been bullied by Her Majesty until she was crying and gasping and begging for mercy, and in the end had even drifted off into a hazy slumber, now, seeing that Her Majesty had even thoughtfully had Willow bring new clothes first thing in the morning—
and had even arranged for them to eat the Hot Pot she loved most on ordinary days—the spring of sweet-and-sour, first-budding love within the pink-haired girl's heart instantly turned as sweet as if a whole jar of maple syrup had been poured into it.
Blissfully, Irene threw off the covers and slipped on the pink dress, its hem trimmed with fine lace.
However, just as her bare, fair little feet stepped onto the soft white fox-fur carpet and she was about to straighten up and stand—
an indescribable soreness and a hangover-like numb tingling surged up without warning from the base of her thighs and her slender waist.
The pink-haired girl felt her two calves go weak, her balance unsteady, and she nearly toppled headfirst back onto that soft, large couch that still retained the cold fragrance of Black Rose.
In a flustered scramble, Irene grabbed hold of the carved white-porcelain post at the edge of the bed, barely steadying her swaying, slender frame.
In that instant, her round face—which had only just managed to cool down—flushed scorching hot once more, all the way to the most frenzied critical point!
She subconsciously thought of that absurd scene.
That scalding sensation, as if she were being melted, seemed even now to be branded into the texture of her skin, startling her whole body into uncontrollable tingling shivers.
Somewhat flustered and annoyed, Irene rubbed her faintly aching side, her little mouth puckering high in a pout, muttering under her breath that Sophia was aloof and proud on the surface but actually wicked to the very bone behind the scenes—while still, somewhat sweetly, stepping into her slippers and wobbling crookedly, with a touch of guilty conscience, into the private bathroom to wash up.
Looking in the mirror at her own glittering big sapphire eyes, like vessels brimming with clear spring water, and at her abnormally rosy lips, she hurriedly splashed cool spring water hard against her burning cheeks.
At this moment, inside the flower house of the side hall, all was lush and green, vines stretching and spreading along the tall glazed windows.
In the corner, several enormous ice blocks, reinforced with magic by Daphne, were giving off wisps of white mist, the cool, pleasant chill drifting gently, sealing out the midsummer noon heat outside so thoroughly that not a single thread of it could seep through.
In the center of the long mahogany table, a bronze divided twin-broth pot, specially made by the workshop, was bubbling and rolling with rich broth.
On the red-broth side floated numbing, spicy, savory oils and spices, fervently rolling with bubbles.
The white-broth side was a rich, milky stock simmered from highland mushrooms and top-grade wild-deer bones, its savory aroma assailing the nose.
On the table, the Administrative maids had long since neatly arranged plate after plate of fresh, tender meat slices cut as thin as cicada wings, crisp wild greens freshly scooped from the stream, and assorted exquisite little snacks.
Sophia sat in the topmost seat of honor with a placid expression.
Her moonlight-pure silver hair fell smoothly over her shoulders; her pale-gold dead-fish eyes still betrayed not the slightest superfluous ripple of emotion as she slowly picked up a slice of red maple cake with a pair of white-porcelain chopsticks, eating in a leisurely, on-and-off manner, savoring this rare relaxed afternoon that required no cross-checking of documents.
However, compared to Her Majesty's composed ease, the seating and atmosphere across the entire dining table exuded a strangeness and subtlety that sent a chill into the very marrow of one's bones.
To Sophia's right sat, in order, Delilah, Victoria, Daphne, Willow, and Bardess—nearly the full assembly of the Black Rose headquarters' core backbone.
But to Her Majesty's left, in a manner most abrupt yet by an unspoken accord, stood a single, solitary, empty pinewood high-backed chair.
Although no one said anything outright, the minds of the several women at the table were clearly not entirely on that fragrant pot of Hot Pot broth.
Seated among them, Victoria elegantly spread out her long skirts, the ivory folding fan in her hand swaying on and off, concealing the corners of her mouth that were already nearly curling up to her ears.
Her golden eyes brimmed with merry laughter, her gaze darting nimbly back and forth between that empty seat and the nape of Her Majesty Sophia's neck.
Irene's whole conquest declaration in the main-warehouse office last night was still vivid in her memory; when this Third Princess rose this morning and heard that Irene had gone into Her Majesty's room last night and never came out, the seasoned gossip-loving fox within her could no longer hold itself back at all.
Look at Her Majesty so composed and at ease—could it be that that little pink blockhead really did succeed with her straightball last night?
Beside her, Saint Daphne sat honestly on the cushioned chair with her hands folded together, her jade-green eyes, clear as limpid lake water, now flickering with extreme bashfulness and unease.
The moment she looked at that empty seat, her mind would involuntarily conjure up all that nonsense Victoria had said last night about admiration and intimacy between girls, and her clear, flawless pretty face, steeped in the rising steam, was faintly even a few shades redder than the red broth itself.
People did fall in love in their Magical Girl world too, only Daphne had never really looked into such things.
Grand Commander Bardess, too, somewhat dazedly scratched her wheat-colored neck; dressed in crisp everyday clothes, her androgynous, handsome face was full of bewilderment.
Although she felt things surely couldn't have developed so fast, watching the various preoccupied expressions around the table, this powerful Commander, who had always been somewhat rigidly obsessive-compulsive, also grew restless for a moment, and could only nudge the dipping-sauce dish before her until it lined up perfectly flush with the table's edge, trying to mask her own blankness.
Only the Administrative Officer Willow, seated upright at Daphne's side, still maintained that flawlessly elegant poise.
With a placid expression she poured Sophia a cup of cool fruit wine, her lowered long lashes concealing the rarely revealed flicker of emotion at the bottom of her eyes—deep and calm, as if she truly were merely the most dutiful steward accompanying the army.
However, if one were to ask who at the entire table had the worst complexion and the heaviest aura of menace—it could be none other than the red-haired Senior General Delilah, seated in the first place at Her Majesty's right hand.
This First General, who on ordinary days would not so much as furrow her brow amid the mountains of corpses and seas of blood of the battle formations.
At this very moment, her entire heroic, imposing face was as cold and hard as a block of granite that would never melt in ten thousand years, her complexion ghastly pale without the slightest trace of color, and beneath her eyes there even faintly hung a very thin layer of dark circles, worn out from her extreme resentment.
Delilah just pressed one hand firmly down on her knee, her flame-bright red hair drooping somewhat in the breeze of the flower house, her dark-red eyes full of heavy melancholy, shock, and a thoroughly weathered-down dullness.
No one knew just what kind of devastating mental torment she had endured last night.
She had originally been nailed in place, dead-center at the main door, like the most reliable statue of steel.
But who could have foreseen that, although the heavy wooden door of the Bedchamber could shut out all external impurities, it utterly failed to shut out, in the silent depths of night, those sticky, gooey, absurd sounds that spilled in full through the cracks of the door.
Those slightly trembling, shameful whimpers, that suppressed-yet-uncontainable panting so very close at hand, and Her Majesty's usually cold and haughty voice, last night sunk so low and warm it melted one's very bones into that tender murmuring...
Word by word, it was for all the world like so many red-hot files, gouging a bloody hole, all night long, into the iron-wall heart of her, Her Majesty's most trusted guard.
Delilah bit down hard on her lip, her long nails nearly digging into the flesh of her palms, while within her heart a series of earth-shattering tsunamis of grievance and faint sourness had long since surged up.
Yet precisely in front of Her Majesty, she had to grimly maintain the last shred of dignity of a Mason commander, her whole being forcibly radiating a heavy melancholy that nearly threatened to freeze the entire flower house.
Just at this strange juncture, with undercurrents surging above and below the long dining table and the temperature nearly dropping to freezing point, from the small vine-curtained door on the outer side of the flower house there finally came once more a faint patter of tiny footsteps, even carrying a slight hobbling lurch.
The little vine-curtained door was gently pushed open by a fair, tender little hand, giving off a faint rustling sound.
Irene, her round little face flushed, wearing the pink dress Sophia had had Willow deliver, walked in somewhat awkwardly.
She tried her utmost to take extremely steady, extremely natural steps, so as to fully maintain her dignity as the Chief Inventor of the Black Rose.
However, the all-too-thrilling entanglement she had experienced under the covers last night, in the end, still left her fair little legs somewhat disobedient.
As she stepped over the threshold, her slightly trembling, faintly hobbling, stiff figure was, after all, unavoidably exposed.
Almost the instant Irene appeared, the gazes of the five women seated on the right side of the mahogany table all, in an instant and by perfect unspoken accord, fixed in unison upon her.
Meeting this barrage of complicated looks rushing at her from all sides, Irene's already somewhat burning cheeks instantly flushed so red they seemed about to steam.
Especially when her gaze met the Third Princess Victoria's golden eyes full of teasing, and Saint Daphne's jade-green eyes so bashful they were nearly dripping, the pink-haired girl's legs nearly gave out and she almost tripped and fell right there on the thick carpet.
At the head seat, Sophia slowly swallowed her last mouthful of red maple cake.
Her pale-gold dead-fish eyes shifted steadily away from the empty pinewood high-backed chair, casting a faint glance at the guilty-faced Irene, her voice as cold as ever, without the least trace of mortal warmth:
"You've come. Since everyone's here, then let us begin."
"Oh—oh! Yes, Your Majesty!"
As if granted a pardon, Irene hurriedly lowered her head and slipped with a whoosh into the only empty seat at Sophia's left hand.
As Her Majesty's cold pronouncement rang out within the cool flower house, this seemingly utterly ordinary yet in truth undercurrent-roiling Hot Pot feast finally raised its curtain in earnest amid the "bubble, bubble" of the rolling bronze pot.
However, apart from Sophia at the head seat, still composed and unhurriedly picking up wild greens, the vassals across the entire long table ate this meal each with her own preoccupations, each putting on her own splendid show.
"Wow, this venison is blanched just right—so fragrant!"
Irene, for her part, ate with great delight.
Having been seized by the waist and tormented for so long by Her Majesty under the fox-fur quilt last night, her stamina had long been overdrawn, and having only just finished washing up moments ago, her stomach had long since been growling with hunger.
Casting aside all those embarrassing conquest fantasies in her mind, she took up her white-porcelain chopsticks, brazenly fished up large slices of fresh, tender meat from the red-broth side, and stuffed them into her mouth with huffing, puffing gusto, so satisfied that her big sapphire eyes happily narrowed into two lovely crescent moons.
In her mental world, she had already succeeded with her straightball last night and formed the most perfect intimate contract with Her Majesty, so sitting now in the first seat on the left, eating a piping-hot Hot Pot, was simply the most natural fruit of victory imaginable.
But in the eyes of those at the table who were paying attention, this scene took on an entirely different flavor.
Victoria, fanning her ivory folding fan, was tickled beyond measure, her beautiful eyes making a swift circuit over Irene's somewhat swollen lips and her unnaturally squirming slender waist.
The smile at the corners of this Third Princess's mouth was as deep as that of a fox who had had her way, as she thought to herself that this little girl, who on ordinary days only knew how to deal with fine-iron protective gear, once she grew wild, her execution power could actually be this formidable.
Meanwhile, for those several across the long table, the chopsticks in their hands felt as heavy as if they weighed a thousand catties.
Saint Daphne hung her little head low, her jade-green eyes fixed firmly on the bowl of bland dipping sauce before her, the roots of her fair ears already flushed crimson.
She wondered: if she went to Her Majesty, would she too walk out all crooked and wobbling like Irene?
Extreme bashfulness and unease left this gentle Saint with no appetite at all; her serving chopsticks rummaged for ages on the mushroom-broth side, only to numbly pick up at last a single solitary little shiitake, which she chewed mechanically in her mouth.
As for the Administrative Officer Willow, seated at Daphne's side, she still maintained that dignified, flawless, elegant poise.
With great method she used the serving chopsticks to blanch the plumpest, choicest meat slices, arranging them neatly on Sophia's plate, her movements gentle and considerate.
However, if one looked closely, one would notice that the small white-porcelain plate before her own self was, from start to finish, excessively clean.
As a top-tier civil officer, the deep gaze she fixed on the left side of the long table plainly showed that her inner self was not as calm as the surface suggested; that rarely revealed flicker of faint sourness had, in the end, discounted her appetite entirely.
However, if one were to ask who at the entire table could least bring herself to eat—it could be none other than the red-haired Senior General Delilah, her complexion ghastly pale and dark circles beneath her eyes.
This iron-wall commander, who on the battlefield made countless old nobles tremble at the mere mention of her name, at this very moment, facing the pot of numbing-spicy red broth rolling with fierce bubbles before her, felt as though her own heart were being repeatedly seared in that scalding oil pot.
Those shameful whimpers, those unceasing warm murmurs she had heard last night while grimly guarding the door, at this moment revived in full force, at high intensity, in the depths of her mind, accompanied by the sounds of Irene chewing away with hearty appetite.
Delilah gripped the white-porcelain chopsticks in her hand for dear life, her knuckles paling slightly from the excessive force.
She watched that pink little bunny swaggering into the seat at Her Majesty's side, and the sweetness that had originally arisen in her heart over the perfect contract, in this second, turned utterly into endless melancholy and a tsunami of faint sourness.
This General painstakingly guarded the Bedchamber defense line for an entire night....
Grief welled up from Delilah's heart, her whole being radiating a menace and resentment that nearly threatened to freeze the entire flower house completely.
Over the whole meal, apart from woodenly chewing a single piece of wild greens in her mouth for a full several dozen breaths' worth of time, she could not even swallow half a slice of fresh, tender meat down her throat.
At the head seat, Sophia slightly moved her eyelids.
Her pale-gold dead-fish eyes swept, most puzzled, over Delilah's ghastly pale complexion and Daphne's thoroughly reddened cheeks.
How was it that this morning, one and all, they suddenly looked so listless and without appetite?
After pondering a while, Sophia reached a conclusion.
Sure enough, when the weather was too hot everyone still couldn't manage to eat Hot Pot; even lowering the temperature of the flower house was of no use.
The afternoon sunlight streamed through the tall, floor-to-ceiling glazed windows of the Temporary Palace, dyeing the spacious Council Hall a faint golden hue.
After finishing that meal of Hot Pot—each with her own thoughts, exceedingly strange—the undercurrents at the long table finally subsided for the time being.
Sophia sat back down in the white-fox-fur cushioned chair behind the long desk, not a ripple discernible on her fair, exquisite, deadpan face.
Only her pale-gold dead-fish eyes drooped slightly as she slowly leafed through the stack of wasteland-reclamation schedules concerning the environs of Leighton city before her.
Suddenly, a steady, regular tread broke the silence within the Council Hall.
Grand Commander Bardess strode in briskly with crisp military steps.
As this powerful Commander, with her very mild obsessive-compulsive disorder, passed the doorway, she habitually raised a hand to tug the slightly crooked fine-iron buttons of her everyday uniform perfectly straight, and only then walked up to the long desk and bowed before the silver-haired girl upon the throne.
Her clear, pleasant female voice, carrying an androgynous magnetism, rang out in the empty hall, seeming especially solemn:
"Your Majesty, the border guard army has sent an urgent confidential report. The kings of the two small neighboring states to the west—the Kingdom of Ross and the Kingdom of Orson—this afternoon personally arrived at the stone bridge on the outer perimeter of the Temporary Palace, each bringing their own close personal guard cavalry. They have presented their state letters, declaring that they wish to sit down and have a talk with Your Majesty this afternoon."
"Have a talk?"
Before Sophia could speak, the Third Princess Victoria, seated on a side chair and leisurely fanning her ivory folding fan, was the first to let out an exceedingly elegant light laugh.
This seasoned fox half-covered her red lips with the folding fan, her golden eyes glinting with the teasing light of one who had expected as much, and said languidly:
"By the looks of it, these two kings, content in their little corners, are remarkably well-informed. The moment they saw the City Lord of Leighton hand over the state seal and utterly cut off the old nobles' hopes, they could no longer sit still either. However, since this time they have used the words 'have a talk,' that shows they have no intention of directly surrendering their lands and submitting like Liliana did; rather, they want to win themselves some rich privileges and bargaining chips before our Black Rose host completely bears down upon their borders."
Listening to Victoria's near-total, see-through macro analysis, Sophia's exquisite deadpan face remained as still as an ancient well.
Her pale-gold dead-fish eyes moved ever so slowly as she reached out and pulled over a detailed topographical map of the Northern border drawn on parchment.
The silver-haired girl's gaze swept lightly over the two long, narrow national borders marked in light green and dark brown on the map, while the diplomatic dossiers concerning these two small states flashed swiftly through her mind.
Although these two countries were not large in territory, their geographical positions were exceedingly subtle, and in terms of material output they possessed advantages uniquely favored by nature.
The Kingdom of Ross, nestled against mountains and water, possessed the most fertile and vast natural highland pastures on the entire Northern border plain; its animal husbandry flourished exceedingly, and the plump cattle and sheep, warhorse hides and furs, and dairy products it produced each year could nearly fill the bellies of several small states.
The Kingdom of Orson, meanwhile, was wholly embedded within ancient deep mountains and dense forests, its mountain-and-wild goods inexhaustible—especially all manner of rare, precious mushrooms, dried goods, and rare medicinal herbs, which, once air-dried each year, piled their national warehouses full.
They did indeed have a bit of capital for negotiation.
Sophia stared at the map, her fingertips tapping ever so lightly on the edge of the desk, and in the deepest depths of her heart, most covertly, let out a long breath.
These past couple of days, for the sake of the winter rations of those two hundred thousand refugees, This Queen hasn't even been able to eat her red maple cake in peace.
If This Queen could bring the beef and mutton and air-dried mountain goods of these two small states entirely under Black Rose's jurisdiction, and in winter stew several pots of piping-hot, delicious meat soup for the soldiers and refugees, then not only would she save a large sum of silver on buying grain—wouldn't her salted-fish hibernation plan also be able to pass all the more comfortably and at ease?
But these two kings don't look very obedient; if the terms are negotiated too harshly, This Queen's upcoming overtime schedule is likely to grow again, I'm afraid.
To see them, or not to see them, after all....
Seeing Sophia staring at the map in silent contemplation, Victoria, who knew the ins and outs of the Northern border's various states intimately, also folded up her ivory fan, leaned her noble frame slightly forward, and somewhat earnestly began to dissect for Sophia the strengths and weaknesses of these two countries:
"Your Majesty, these two small states are richly resourced and famed as lands of wealth—that is their confidence. But their weakness is equally fatal: due to long valuing commerce over arms, the military strength of both states is feeble beyond measure, still equipped to this day with the broken-down bronze armor of a bygone age, unable to produce even a single decent weapon. At this crucial juncture, when the ancient Empire to the south could marshal heavy troops and turn the tide at any moment, they are like two pieces of plump yet utterly defenseless fresh meat.
"Their coming this time is nothing more than a wish to use the cattle, sheep, and mushrooms in their hands to exchange for the absolute protection of our Mason army, while incidentally preserving a bit of the old nobles' hereditary face, that's all."
Hearing this, Sophia finally reached a decision.
She lowered her long lashes slightly, still releasing no superfluous emotion on her porcelain-fair face, and only most elegantly tapped her fingertip lightly on the parchment map, her voice cold, steady, and without a trace of mortal warmth as she handed down her final pronouncement:
"Since they've already come to the door, then let us see them. Bardess, have the inner guards let them pass. This Queen would like to see just how much sincerity these two kings can bring to the throne of Black Rose."
Before long, the heavy doors of the Hall of State Affairs were once again slowly pushed open.
Grand Commander Bardess, with steady and crisp strides, led the two foreign monarchs into the great hall.
These two were the rulers of the neighboring states to the west, one man and one woman, both looking no longer young, roughly in their early-to-mid fifties.
The man was the monarch of the Kingdom of Ross; even clad in a luxurious fox-fur coat turned wool-side out, he could not conceal the toughness and weather-beatenness of one who had lived year-round on horseback.
The woman was the ruler of the Kingdom of Orson, her grizzled long hair combed perfectly neat, her gaze carrying a sharpness and composure honed over years in the deep mountains and dense forests.
They walked the length of the long red carpet, raised their heads slightly, and looked toward the silver-haired girl seated high upon the white-fox-fur cushioned chair.
At this moment Sophia still maintained that standard pose of propping her cheek on one hand, her pale-gold dead-fish eyes drooping without a ripple, no joy or anger discernible on her pale, exquisite face.
This supreme bearing—of remaining unmoved though Mount Tai collapsed before her—fell into the eyes of the two weather-beaten Old Kings as an unfathomable majesty, making them secretly break into a cold sweat inwardly.
The two halted before the long desk, most properly pressing hands to their chests and bowing their heads, performing an impeccable noble's salute to this Queen, only sixteen years of age yet already striking awe across the Northern border.
"We greet Your Majesty Sophia."
After being seated under the maids' guidance, the two kings were quite straightforward, choosing not to beat around the bush before this Queen who, by rumor, never erred in her schemes.
They knew well in their hearts that the City Lord of Leighton had already handed over the state seal, and that the Black Rose host bearing down on the border was only a matter of time; to toy now with the hypocritical rhetoric of the old nobles would be purely to make trouble for themselves.
The King of Ross was the first to break the silence; his rough knuckles scratched at his knee, and his voice was deep and direct:
"Your Majesty Sophia, although our two states' tidings are not the swiftest, we have nonetheless witnessed how the banner of Black Rose has taken root in the Northern border. For the sake of the common folk of our two states, Ross and Orson are willing to bring all our lands and subjects to join Mason, and to follow Your Majesty's lead in all things. However, before that, we have a few presumptuous requests, which we hope Your Majesty might graciously grant."
The Queen of Orson, by perfect tacit understanding, took up the thread, her sharp eyes fixed firmly on Sophia as she came straight to the point and laid out their bottom line:
"First, we hope that after merging into Mason, the two of us will remain the masters of those two cities, retaining our administrative status over our former domains.
"Second, the subjects of our two states have long-established customs, and therefore the laws and governance within our two states shall keep to their original mode, governed independently by us, with headquarters not directly intervening.
"Third, we have heard that Mason's development in workshop technology is exquisite beyond compare, those new-style fine-iron protective gear and marvelous contrivances leaving one in awe. Should there be any good things in the future, Your Majesty must by all means include us, so that our scholars too may take part."
Having put forward these three conditions, which they reckoned weighty indeed, the two kings held their breath and quietly awaited the verdict from upon the throne.
Behind the long desk, Sophia, having heard all this, still showed not the slightest emotional fluctuation on her cold face.
She lowered her long lashes slightly, tapping her fingertip ever so lightly once on the smooth wooden desk, falling into a brief contemplation.
However, this supreme Queen, who in the eyes of the two kings was deep-scheming and weighing the pros and cons, at this moment had surfacing within her heart nothing but an exceedingly comfortable lazybones' little calculation.
"Independent governance? That absolutely will not do. If some slip-up occurs in winter while distributing those highland cattle and sheep and air-dried mountain goods, or if the old nobles below stir up some rotten business of oppressing the common folk again, won't This Queen be dragged up again in the dead of night to revise those endless rebellion-quelling documents and pacification accounts?
"Only by bringing all the administrative rules under This Queen's system, letting Willow and Daphne and the others handle the unified dispatch and unified distribution, with every place following one single method—only then can This Queen become a thoroughly hands-off boss and safely and soundly hide away in the Bedchamber to hibernate."
Because Sophia said nothing for a good while, her pale-gold dead-fish eyes appeared especially cold beneath the dim yellow lamplight, and the atmosphere throughout the Hall of State Affairs grew, for a time, so oppressive as to be nearly suffocating.
The hands of the King of Ross and the Queen of Orson clenched involuntarily beneath their sleeves, and fine beads of cold sweat gradually seeped out upon their foreheads.
They exchanged a somewhat nervous glance, both supposing that their arrogant conditions—near to obeying summons but not commands—had thoroughly angered this vigorous, decisive Tyrant Queen, and even prepared themselves to meet Black Rose's iron-blooded refusal.
In the midst of this near-frozen dead silence, Sophia finally spoke slowly, her cold and unwavering voice echoing desolately through the empty hall:
"The first point and the third point, This Queen can grant you. Toward any and all cities that submit beneath the throne of Black Rose, This Queen will naturally treat all alike. Letting you continue as City Lords and bringing you along to develop—there is nothing wrong with that."
Hearing this, a flush of joy had just flashed through the two Old Kings' eyes, but before they could fully swallow down this breath of delight, they heard the silver-haired girl's tone sink slightly.
Sophia raised her lifeless pale-gold eyes, and though her words were calm, they carried a supreme majesty that brooked no doubt, cleanly and crisply crushing their last line of defense utterly:
"But this second point—absolutely will not do."
"Once merged into Mason's territory, every place must be governed uniformly by headquarters. The Northern border has many rules, but from this day forward there can be only one voice, and that is Mason's new Order."
These cold, resolute words echoed slowly through the empty Hall of State Affairs, like a heavy hammer-blow slamming hard upon the hearts of the King of Ross and the Queen of Orson.
What an arrogant attitude!
To utterly erase the titles of two independent kingdoms passed down over several generations, forcibly bringing all decrees and military authority under Mason.
This silver-haired Queen, only sixteen years of age, had not the slightest intention even to conceal her ambition.
She just propped her cheek on one hand, looking down from above with those pale-gold eyes that seemed to see through everything, as placid as if she were merely announcing some trivial, self-evident matter.
The two old monarchs, who had ruled the Northern border for decades, exchanged a glance, each reading in the other's eyes the shock, the bitterness, and that lingering sense of powerlessness.
They had originally thought that, by virtue of the highland cattle and sheep and air-dried mountain goods in their hands, they could win themselves at least some privileges of nominal submission at this negotiating table.
But only upon meeting Sophia's unwavering gaze did they fully understand that, in the eyes of this Queen who never erred in her schemes and whose methods were swift and decisive, their so-called bargaining chips did not even qualify to make her turn a few more pages of her files.
If they refused, then likely before this autumn was even over, Mason's steel torrent—equipped with new-style iron armor and black muskets—would trample their lands flat along the entire front.
The King of Ross heaved a long sigh, his once-erect spine seeming in that instant to age ten years.
He turned his head to glance at Victoria beside him, fanning herself with a teasing look, then glanced at Grand Commander Bardess, who held her sword hilt and looked neither left nor right, and understood in his heart that the will of Black Rose left absolutely no room for haggling.
The Queen of Orson gave a self-mocking, bitter laugh; she straightened her long skirts, was the first to rise from her chair, then crossed past the long desk and, ramrod-straight, knelt down most submissively upon the marble floor in the direction of the lofty throne.
Seeing this, the King of Ross likewise bent his noble knees.
"The City Lord of Ross is willing to abide by Your Majesty's verdict."
"The City Lord of Orson, from this day forth, shall follow only the new Order's lead."
With no tedious wrangling, under the absolute deterrence of Black Rose's power and Sophia's spine-chilling cold aura, the two monarchs at last bowed their heads and, in the capacity of City Lords, offered this new master of the Northern border their most thorough submission.
The matter was settled with unusual swiftness.
After handing over, as a matter of course, the documents and tokens symbolizing their nations' supreme power to the Administrative Officer Willow, the two newly minted City Lords did not dare linger even a moment in the Temporary Palace, and overnight rushed back to their respective domains with their personal guard cavalry.
They had to, at the greatest possible speed, draw out half of their two states' battle-capable elite forces and march them day and night to muster at the Mason Temporary Palace.
With the successive submission of Leighton city, the Ross plains, and the Orson forests, the situation in this region underwent earth-shaking changes within just a few short days.
Troop after troop of cavalry and foot soldiers in armor of every color, along with ox carts laden with air-dried mountain goods and military supplies, began pouring in an unending stream into the camp zones on the outer perimeter of the Temporary Palace, the banners of Black Rose planted denser with each passing day.
And such an unprecedented, enormous mobilization of forces naturally stirred up an utterly wild uproar among the ordinary soldiers and common folk.
By now, it was not only the Inventor Irene, busy each day in the East side hall workshop, who felt the explosive surge in protective-gear orders; even among the garrison soldiers below, the private speculations and rumors had already grown too numerous to count.
Why, at the very juncture when a great war loomed, was Her Majesty firmly gathering here all the battle-capable armies within several hundred li around?
"Hey, buddy, did you hear? This morning that troop of highland heavy cavalry from Ross city moved into the west camp zone too."
Beneath the beacon tower on the outer perimeter of the Temporary Palace, a Mason veteran clad in fine-iron padded armor, carefully wiping his black musket with a cotton cloth, nudged the comrade beside him with his elbow and said in a mysterious, hushed voice.
His comrade, who was brushing a warhorse's coat section by section, chuckled at this, his eyes full of a fanatical light:
"Saw it long ago. Tsk tsk—counting in the Leighton guards that City Lord Liliana brought over before, within ten li around this Temporary Palace of ours there's probably close to a hundred thousand troops camped now, right? Her Majesty's grand designs—tsk, truly, you don't know till you see it, and one look gives you a fright."
"Use your head and think—with Her Majesty gathering so many troops all here, what else could it be for?"
The veteran wiping his musket stopped his hands and, with a surge of emotion, gazed toward the throne in the deepest recesses of the Temporary Palace.
"Right now all those old nobles outside and the ancient Empire to the south think our Mason only wants to defend itself in the Northern border, but the way I see it... our Queen's vision is vast indeed!"
"You mean... unifying the whole continent?!"
The horse-brushing soldier drew in a sharp breath of cold air; yet on his face, coarsened by years of campaigning, there appeared not the slightest fear of a great decisive battle, but rather, faintly, an inextricable excitement and anticipation:
"If anyone else said that, I'd slap them dead. But if it's our Your Majesty Sophia... heh, could that be false? 'There can be only one voice, and that is Mason's new Order.' Those are the very words that came out of the Hall of State Affairs this afternoon!"
The veteran slapped his hand down on his musket stock, his eyes full of fanatical worship:
"Following such a far-sighted, supreme Majesty, in this lifetime of ours we might really get to witness the birth of an unprecedented, great Empire! Strike south, and let those lofty ancient Empires taste the might of our black muskets and new-style iron armor too!!"
"Oh, oh!! That truly is something to look forward to!!"
Around the tents, the several young soldiers who had heard this exchange, far from feeling fear, clenched their fists one after another, a fervent fighting spirit kindling in their eyes.
However, Sophia, seated at this moment on the white-fox-fur cushioned chair in the Hall of State Affairs, listening to the faint waves of fanatical drilling shouts of "long live" drifting in from outside the window, rubbed her temples with a touch of headache, her pale-gold dead-fish eyes brimming with thick speechlessness and weariness.
Isn't two more resource-rich countries coming over a good thing?
Why is it that the way these fellows look at This Queen grows ever more like looking at a peerless Tyrant about to destroy the world?
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